Who stuck those rusty pieces on the ledge? he asked
I did, of course. Her eyes were sparkling.
You dragged them out of the garbage? He sounded horrified. They are totally rusted out.
But look, she said, how the deep reddish color of the steps echoes that of the rust hook, and whatever else that other piece is. Do you think it’s a bicycle seat? They look so right there, like two ancient symbols of fall and the necessary decay it brings so that we may have renewal in the spring. Anyway, now ~ with the fall leaves having turned a beautiful rust colour themselves ~ well, I just couldn’t resist this placement. It’s visual poetry.
I throw stuff in the garbage, and you fish it out and make a poem out of it, he mumbled.
She snapped a photo. It will grow on you, she added.
Which, the rust or the moss? And what does a rusty bicycle seat have to do with renewal?
Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was being serious.